A Sign of God

It’s raining the day she meets her first grandchild. Soon there are five of them, small and dirty and sweet-smelling. She’s easy with them, more so than with her own children. She calls them devils when they come to her, holding out worms and candy.

Aug 7, 2023
  •  
Fiction

We are currently open for submissions until the end of the year!
Read Cola Literary Review
You’re All in Big Trouble

Mrs. Gwynn’s markering made that butcher paper sing. Person! It chirped in my right ear. Person! It cooed in the left. Person! It ballyhooed around my legs and feet. Her nostrils widened, then her face drew tight. I knew she smelled the sharp tang of milk parlor on me, chlorinated-manure stink that went deeper than scalding water and soaps. I was proud.

Jul 17, 2023
  •  
Fiction
[Horns everywhere]

a whole gigantic marching band, one that used to be louder than bulldozers, louder than  jets, louder than Aunt Catherine after three margaritas (no salt)

Jun 19, 2023
  •  
Poetry
Partition

I hoped you’d grow into a southern red oak speaking of your roots and the struggle for sun.

Jun 6, 2023
  •  
Poetry
Why Don’t Vampires Just Hold Blood Drives?

I want a little more bureaucracy
in my horror.

Apr 12, 2023
  •  
Poetry
Side Cars are for Bitches

Zach Braff is the perfect manic pixie dream boy
for any pet funeral, and yet, I suppose
he didn’t get the memo that he was meant


to come down from the Garden State and do the honors.

Feb 22, 2023
  •  
Poetry

Our chapbooks

Our chapbook contest may be closed, but past poetry and fiction winners are still available for purchase! Check out what we have on sale on our Submittable.

Half Past 11:00

HALF PAST 11:00 sleeps in my bed and refuses to be

roused. I tuck the sheets in tight before I leave for work

Feb 15, 2023
  •  
Poetry
Red Filter

At the dark sky campsite I put a red filter over my flashlight.

Feb 1, 2023
  •  
Poetry
Never and Always

       I’m sorry to do this to you right now. I know the movers are coming in two days. I can picture you in your apartment: the sunset over the city glistening through your floor-to-ceiling windows, Joni Mitchell or Linda Ronstadt crooning in the background while you bubble-wrap your dishes. I know you don’t have time for this. Timing has never been my strong suit. My only defense is: I can’t think about anything else.

       Do you, by any chance, remember the first time we met?

Jan 24, 2023
  •  
Fiction
A Conversation with Frau Schiele

He only allows my entrance to unbutton my dress
and form those animal poses. To be near him
is to be reduced to line

Jan 11, 2023
  •  
Poetry
Outro, Prelude

Here,                         riding in a taxi on the Manhattan Bridge
late                            at night in a pit-pat drizzle,
everything                looks puffy from the back seat window

Jan 4, 2023
  •  
Poetry
Photo of a Turtle in Which No Turtle Is Visible

Just under the browned swamp surface: a reaching
neck (not pictured). The edge of a stick (pictured).

Dec 28, 2022
  •  
Poetry
Just an Acquaintance

He was NBA-player height
converted to Judaism to marry

Dec 14, 2022
  •  
Poetry
Need Comes Down Like A Mallett

And the town crier cries la localende! This is one of the stories where a stranger

        comes to town. A stranger with a stranger tool.

Come down from the hill freckled with mustard gesare. You know the stuff, Mara

        how it explodes in middle spring.

Nov 14, 2022
  •  
Poetry
© Cola Literary Review, 2023. All rights reserved.
Cola Literary Review does not collect or share personal information.
ISSN 2834-9458